


I Could Stare at Your Back All Day

by radiodurans



Series: Pink in the Night [2]
Category: Harry Styles (Musician)
Genre: Gay Sex That Might Be Lesbian Sex, Gender Dysphoria, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Harry Styles, Nonbinary Relationships, Other, Polyamorous Relationships, Transgender Relationships, Vignette, Yearning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:08:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22824613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiodurans/pseuds/radiodurans
Summary: Harry’s back has been designed to drive him slowly insane.OrMeditations on yearning.
Relationships: Mitch Rowland/Harry Styles, Sarah Jones/Mitch Rowland/Harry Styles
Series: Pink in the Night [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640836
Comments: 30
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am uncertain how long this story is going to be. I have kind of a general mental trajectory for it but it’s a lot less intense than the first story in this ‘verse so I think it’s gonna be fun but a little less serious than the first story in this series. Some Big Gender Feelings but mostly staring at Harry’s back and some porn too which I think should be nice. Not enough of that in the tag.
> 
> Please do not send Mx. Harry Styles this fic. Any resemblance to persons living or dead are coincidental yadda yadda etc. I make no claims about Harry Styles' actual sexuality or gender within this story. Think of it as a roman a clef with the real names still tacked on.
> 
> Title from Pink in the Night by Mitski.

There’s no air conditioning in the house in Jamaica and it’s the hottest fucking night Mitch has ever experienced. The weather app on his phone says that it’s ninety degrees but it feels about a thousand. It’s hard enough as it is for Mitch to get to sleep on an average night (hell, he’s barely slept at all since he’s been here) but the heat is so oppressive that it’s possible he might not sleep at _all_ tonight. Which would be terrible as their writing team only has x number of days to write x number of songs before they all have to pack up and return to the world at large. Being out of commission under such time constraints is absolutely _unacceptable_. . .so naturally the anxiety about not getting any sleep is feeding into the already terrible feedback loop of the heat trying to squash the air out of his lungs.

To distract his stupid brain (and hopefully wear him out) Mitch decides to get some water from the kitchen. He pads down the hallway as quietly as possible. Mitch isn’t sure who on the team is a light sleeper, but he certainly doesn’t want to find out the answer by waking anyone. However, when he gets to the kitchen, he finds that someone else is also awake – the Big Man Himself. He’s staring out a big window in the kitchen, a bottle of water in hand, shadows cascading across his face and down his scrapbook of a body. When he lifts his arm to take a sip of the water, darker shadows cast over the dimples in his spine.

One of the best things about the intense work atmosphere of Jamaica has been that it makes it easy to just play his guitar, write some lyrics, and forget how angelically beautiful Harry is. This is the first time in a very long time that he’s gotten to just _look_ , unimpeded by frenetic work sessions or the watchful eyes of their other male friends. Harry has made a lot of jokes about being the fan favorite in his last band, but Mitch has no doubt that it’s true. Even without the mermaid hair he had when they met, even _in his underwear in the dark_ , Harry is so striking that it’s almost too painful to look at him.

Though Harry is technically in the common area, intruding upon his solitude feels wrong. Unfortunately, Mitch is caught lurking in the doorway before he can step even one inch away from the scene of the crime.

“Mitch? Is that you?" Harry says, looking over his shoulder in the direction of the door. Mitch enters the kitchen, resigned to his fate.

"Yeah. Don't mind me - I'm just here to get some water too."

"Oh - I'll get it," says Harry.

Before Mitch can protest to an _international rock star_ grabbing him water, Harry is already rummaging around inside the fridge. He grabs a bottle, shuts the door, and stares at the label for a moment. Unbidden, the image of Harry crossing over and handing him the bottle, tips of his fingers brushing against Mitch's palm, flashes through Mitch's mind.

This fantasy is _not_ what happens.

Harry tosses the bottle at him overhand with a manic grin. It hits the floor with a wobbly _thwack!_ and rolls right past Mitch's feet. His maddeningly handsome friend puts his hands on his hips and frowns as Mitch picks the (now dusty) bottle off the floor.

"Well, I guess I can see how neither of us ended up in sport, eh?"

It shouldn't be funny, but his delivery is always what makes it. Semi-serious, as though he does pine a bit for the alternate Earth in which he and Mitch are on the same baseball team. Mitch lets out a rather unmasculine giggle that is only excusable because of the late hour. He takes a sip of water to compose himself anyway - it is, after all, the reason he is here. 

“I would have caught it if you hadn’t thrown it like that,” says Mitch. Harry nods thoughtfully.

“Fair enough,” he says. Harry screws the cap on his water and rubs his eye in a tired sort of way. “What are you doing up at this hour, Mitchell?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” says Mitch. Harry, nods, faces away from him, braces his palms on the kitchen counter, and sighs through a small stretch. It seems impossible that each change of the light could show Mitch something new, but probability tends to wrap itself around Harry's little finger like he's a fucking god. Mitch is going to get a goddamn migraine from the surreality of it all. Harry’s back has been designed to drive him slowly insane.

“That’s the rub, isn’t it?” says Harry, exhaling through another stretch. Mitch looks away this time - if he doesn’t look, he won’t think, and if he doesn’t think, he won’t want. He takes a sip of water, running a mantra through his mind as the chill runs down his tongue, throat, stomach. 

_You’re lucky to be here - You were nobody before - This should be enough - People would kill to be in your shoes - Be grateful be grateful be grateful be grateful -_

“Have you ever seen _The Notebook?_ ” says Harry. This is a question usually posed to Mitch by exceptionally pretty girls who thrill at the idea of showing him their favorite movie for the first time.He ignores the little backflip his stomach does when he gives Harry the same white lie he gave to the last pretty girl who asked him about it.

“No. I’ve always wanted to, but it just never happened,” says Mitch. A huge smile lights up Harry’s face that makes Mitch grateful for white lies and insomnia and everything else. Harry strides over to him and confidently throws his arm over Mitch’s shoulder. Mitch's treacherous heart thrills at the way Harry's body meets his own, hand dangling over his shoulder, bare chest to thin shirt, musky from thwarted attempts at sleep. 

“No time like the present," says Harry. He escorts them into the living room, leaving both of their bottles of water behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that this took approximately ten years. I had a lot of stressful stuff going on related to gendery B.S. and I was also distracted by acres of hontent so I just wasn't in the headspace to write anything.
> 
> Anyway literally this is just touching and kissing and yearning enjoy

Harry’s heavy head is in Mitch’s lap for the third time this week, which means another night of no fucking sleep and another day of playing his guitar in a haze so deep it might as well be drug-fuelled. They really should stop doing this - it’s unprofessional, first of all, and second - Well, the little snorts Harry makes as drool pools a wet spot onto Mitch’s pajama pants speak volumes about all of the  _ second-of-all  _ reasons that he should pull away and go sleep in his own bed rather than stare at Harry’s back like he’s a tourist at the fucking Sistine Chapel.

Their third rom-com of the night,  _ 27 Dresses _ , is still playing quietly on the TV. He’d turned it down when Harry seemed close to sleeping, but couldn’t bear to turn it off when Harry was asleep. If anyone comes down, he has the easy excuse of  _ just-wanted-to-finish-this-movie  _ and  _ I-couldn’t-bear-to-wake-him  _ as the reason for why he and Harry have ended up this way. . . _ again _ . The real answer -  _ something-inside-me-breaks-a-little-when-I-see-the-canyon-in-your-shoulder-blades _ \- is both obvious and dangerous. Best to leave an aura of plausible deniability. Harry’s other friends can take it upon themselves to look the other way until Harry gets sick of Mitch’s tendency to curl into Harry’s side in front of God and everyone else.

Mitch traces his fingers along the curious birdcage tattoo on Harry's side. The press of his fingers is so light that he thinks he might get away with tracing the whole thing without waking his friend. This is hubris. His friend snuffles and stirs.

"Mitch?"

Mitch jerks his hand away, only to find he can't figure out where to put it that seems inconspicuous. His fingers itch to card through Harry's hair or splay like a starfish across his lower back. He settles for playing with a loose thread on his own shirt instead.

"Hm?" he says nonchalantly. Harry turns his head and glances up at Mitch. A corner of his mouth is crusted with sleep. It would be so easy for Mitch to rub it away with his thumb - but he doesn't.

"Were you touching my birdcage?" A beat of awkward silence. The tattoo itself is along Harry’s rib cage, a space for medics and lovers. As Mitch is neither, a seed of shame flowers in his stomach. He is an intruder.

"Yes," he admits. "Sorry."

His friend’s eyes crinkle into a smile. “No, it's okay. Hurt like hell to get it so it's always nice to know someone else likes it. Here - I'll give you a closer look."

He rolls on his side and flops his arm above his head to expose the tattoo further. His skin stretches over the delicate outline of his ribs; he's small-boned like the swallows that decorate his chest. Mitch gently traces the tattoo with his index finger again, heart pitter-pattering inside of his chest. He's not sure what's more beautiful - the way the tattoo shifts as Harry breathes, the sheer artistry of the delicate linework, or the bare skin around it, smooth and warm and, by now, familiar. 

“Good work, right?” murmurs Harry. He shifts cosily in Mitch’s lap like a little cat being stroked behind the ears.

(What Mitch wouldn’t give for it to be  _ okay _ for him to cup Harry’s head in his hand and stroke his ear with his thumb as they kiss and kiss -)

“Where did you get it done?” says Mitch in a monotone that fails to mask how brain-dead this  _ thing _ with Harry makes him feel. Fuck it - he’ll pretend all of the folds in his brain haven’t been steam-cleaned out by the smell of Harry’s floral deodorant in the actual-morning.

“Hm. California - West Hollywood, I think. I saw a guy there a few times.”

Mitch traces down to the base of the bird cage and lingers on it for a little while. He’s stroked all the rest; if he goes too fast, that will be it. 

“He did a really good job,” says Mitch. He wants to ask -  _ what does it mean - who were you with - why did you get it - how did you get so many - _ but then Harry rolls onto his back and looks up at Mitch, wide-eyed. The arm that was previously flopped over his head reaches up to toy with Mitch’s beard.

“I really like you, Mitch. You’re like - my Bernie Taupin. You know Bernie Taupin?”

Mitch laughs. He wants to entwine his fingers in Harry’s, to stay palm-to-cheek until the sun rises. Still, he hesitates. His right hand finds a place to rest in the soft space under Harry’s ribs. If he climbed inches higher, he could test to see if Harry’s heart was beating as fast as his own. The end of discretion.

“Of course I know Bernie Taupin. Why wouldn’t I know Bernie Taupin?”

Harry pushes his hand back further until he’s cupping Mitch’s face with his hand. His limbs are surprisingly long; he’s barely grown into them.

“Lots of people don’t know lots of things,” he says.

“But why wouldn’t  _ I  _ know that?” says Mitch. He’s being insubordinate, un-clever. He should say -  _ is this you saying you’re Elton John _ ? He should say -  _ we just played Levon yesterday. _ He should do or say anything other than what he actually does, which is meet Harry Styles halfway to a kiss that should feel more like a mistake than it does.

“I dunno,” says Harry in a delirious litany as they kiss and kiss. Mitch’s hair hangs over Harry like a curtain whenever they come up for air. He laughs when it tickles his face but doesn’t push it away. It protects this moment from intruders, and from the hot morning.

_ I dunno _ . At least he’s not alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you thought I FORGOT about this WIP. 
> 
> (Unless, of course, you follow my tumblr "they-them-pigeon dot tundlr dot edu" where I claim I'm going to write things, reblog pictures of Harry Styles, and complain about life, in which case you know I did not forget and promised to have this up this week. Look at me, all classy, writing fanfiction when I'm supposed to be WFH! Perhaps I'm a career disappointment, but I sure am a fanfiction success.)
> 
> You may have seen in my last story if you had the good taste to try lesbian Hendall that I live in New York City and I am seeking donations from full-time employed people with stable jobs to our EMS fund and our Food Banks. The links are below. If you did this I would be eternally grateful.
> 
> EMS Fund (endorsed by many unions in the city): https://www.emsfdnyhelpfund.com/donate  
> Food Bank NYC: https://secure3.convio.net/fbnyc/site/Donation2?df_id=9716&9716.donation=form1&mfc_pref=T&commas=yes
> 
> Also - if you personally are struggling with finances, PLEASE message me on tumblr. I am trying to commission people and help out where I can. I don't have infinite money of course but I am full time employed and trapped in my house and I want to help.
> 
> Content warning: we are reaching the part of the story where gender dysphoria feelings are starting to emerge. Also, surprise! This story is non-binary lesbians. Congrats to all sapphics for this news. We won.

It’s three in the morning by the time they head off to bed from the party. Harry is positively buoyant - he’s still wearing the dress of a girl Mitch can’t name and, every so often, tripping over his feet as he tries to both do a twirl and walk uphill. It would probably cross over the line from endearing to irritating if this clumsiness didn’t give Mitch the excuse to grab onto Harry’s wrist-hand-waist-shoulder every time his feet gave way. Harry’s skin is hot from alcohol and from joy. Sweat stains are darkening the armpits and back of the yellow dress; if Harry ever returns it to its rightful owner, she’ll make a killing selling it on ebay.

When they get inside the house, Harry stomps his foot with a little -  _ Hey! -  _ as though to start in on a debrief. Then, the exhaustion visibly hits him like a train. He rubs the corner of his eye with his index finger so hard that it shows the pink underneath.

“Nevermind. Off to bed,” he says. 

So, with a wave and a yawn, the group fans out in the direction of their separate rooms. All except for Harry, who stumbles in the direction of  _ Mitch’s  _ room rather than his own. Mitch catches him by the wrist, heart thumping in his throat. They’ve never spent the night together in an actual bed. Harry could be confused and Mitch doesn’t want to take advantage. 

“Your room is upstairs, H,” says Mitch. Harry frowns at him with glassy eyes.

“I know. I want to go in yours,” he says. Then, he wriggles his wrist free, and enters the room. Mitch follows wordlessly, face hot, clinging to  _ I want _ as he stares at the nape of Harry’s neck framed in lace. The swish, swish, swish of the dress around Harry’s ankles is whiting out the part of Mitch’s brain that isn’t already dulled by alcohol. 

Harry flops onto the bed as soon as he’s inside the room. He rolls to the middle of the oversized mattress and tilts his head so far back that his butt raises off of the bed. His feet are firmly planted, knees up, and a sprinkle of sand is falling out of his hair. He - no,  _ they _ \- will have sand stuck to their faces when they wake up in the morning.

(Disgusting as it is, he  _ wants  _ that sand like he wants everything else about Harry - the crust of cake at the corner of his mouth and the smudge of wet dirt on his right forearm and the small tear in the dress at his hip. Harry has rearranged the part of his brain formerly reserved for wanting only good things and turned it into a den of desire for rucked-up dresses on dirty male bodies. Though in this light, he could be - if he squints -)

“The ceiling in this room is so high. Do you ever get dizzy in here?” says Harry vacantly. 

Mitch sits down on the bed. He leans gently against Harry’s knee and looks up at the ceiling himself.

“I did on the first day. I’d never been inside a room so big that was all for myself.”

Harry nods and then blinks hard as though trying to center himself. Hit with a bout of the spins, probably. Mitch rubs his arm self-consciously. 

“You deserve big rooms, Mitchell. A big house. A big. . .bed, you know? You’re a talented guy.” says Harry.

He feels around the bed for a moment before finding Mitch’s hand. Finger by finger he fills in the gaps until their hands are stacked like starfish. Then, he curls his fingers in a loose grip.

“I love your hands,” he says. “I think about them all the time. The way they move when you play. I could watch you forever.”

The hairs on Mitch’s arms stand on end. There’s nothing to say but  _ thanks, man _ , a recurring theme ever since he met Harry.  _ Thanks for letting me play for you. Thanks for letting me write with you. Thanks for taking me on a music vacation. Thanks for kissing me and stroking my hair and looking in my eyes like you see a thousand things that I can’t.  _

Harry hums pleasantly as a response. Then, he scrabbles at the back of his neck, face scrunched up in discomfort.

“As much fun as this dress has been, I don’t think I’d like to sleep in it. Would you do the honor of helping me take it off?”

Mitch’s breath hitches in his throat. Harry is trying to get naked  _ in his room _ . Until now, their intimacy has been limited to late-night kissing and quickies in the living room The liminal nature of a three AM couch lay has allowed Mitch to write them off as hazy mistakes.  _ Anything _ can happen at three AM. . .again and again and again. 

“Are you sure you want me to? I don’t want you to, like, feel weird about this in the morning,” says Mitch. 

Harry lets go of his hand and slides to the edge of the bed. He looks at Mitch quizzically.

“Why would I feel weird about this in the morning? We’ve been shagging for weeks.”

Mitch rubs the back of his neck. It’s as hot as it would be if he were ill. 

“We’re both drunk. I don’t want you to feel like I’ve taken advantage of you.”

Harry frowns, turns to the side, and tilts his head down to his chest so that the zipper of the dress is in clear view. 

“You’re not,” he says, voice muffled by the squish of his chin into his chest. “But I will feel  _ very _ taken advantage of if I wake up with a rash because I was unable to take this stranger’s dress off of my body.”

With his back facing Mitch, the parts of the dress that must be making Harry uncomfortable are obvious - the way it barely contains his muscular back, the buried zipper bunched up where the hourglass shape meets a tapered waist, the elastic of the slip cutting into his hips. Mitch hesitantly toys at the teardrop shaped puller with his index finger; it clinks quietly against the mouth of the chain. The hair at the nape of Harry’s neck is dangerously close to catching in the zipper. Mitch gently pushes it out of the way which causes Harry to shiver in a way that sends all of the hot blood pooled in Mitch’s cheeks face straight down to a much more. . . _ intimate _ part of his body.

(Deep down he’s still “Modest Mitchell Rowland,” so-nicknamed for blushing when his college girlfriend grabbed his cock like it was something much more powerful than he’d ever considered when touching himself while he was alone. He’s been feeling lately that it might not be modesty but something else, a curious kinship he feels when Harry kisses him gently at four in the morning. The way Harry will so easily strip when it’s not sexual but freezes just like Mitch with a hand down his pants. How the word “cock” seems so  _ wrong _ when they touch each other -)

Mitch pulls down the zipper slowly to avoid it catching on either Harry’s skin or itself. Harry shrugs out of the sleeves when it’s unzipped all the way. The top of the dress flops into his lap, exposing his sandy torso. He brushes it off as Mitch gives the nape of his neck a small kiss. When Harry hums with pleasure, Mitch slides his hands to rest on Harry’s stomach. It’s not always okay to trail his hands upwards, so he allows Harry to grab his hands and pull them up to his chest. When each hand is resting on a pec, Mitch presses himself into Harry’s back. He buries his nose in Harry’s neck and gives it an ill-advised prod with his tongue.

“Ugh,” he moans at the gritty crunch of sand that immediately fills his mouth. Harry giggles as Mitch pulls his hand away from Harry’s tit -  _ pec  _ \- to try and clear his mouth of filth. Unfortunately, his hand is  _ also _ disgusting which only makes Harry laugh harder. He shimmies out of the rest of the dress and then tackles the still-moaning Mitch onto the bed. Harry kisses him and wastes no time sticking his tongue so far into Mitch’s mouth that it’s almost repulsive. He lets out a performative groan of disgust, then kisses his way towards Mitch’s ear.

“Now we’re both suffering,” he murmurs.

Harry gently dances his fingers up and down the tented front of Mitch’s jeans. When Harry touches him like this, Mitch exhales low and slow, body lighting up with uncomplicated pleasure. He rides Harry’s hand until he cums messily in his jeans. Before he can apologize for finishing too fast, Harry kisses him deeply. He rides Mitch’s leg, messy kisses turning into high-pitched gasps. His fist is buried painfully in Mitch’s hair but Mitch can’t bear to pull it away. He wants to see his own hair pulled away in Harry’s hand after he climaxes, to give Harry a souvenir of the moment. 

With a final thrust and a glorious keen, Harry cums. Then, he flops on Mitch’s body like a weighted blanket. 

“Jesus, Mitch,” says Harry. 

Mitch buries a sweaty hand in Harry’s hair and kisses his cheek.

_ Jesus _ is right. 


End file.
